


take me home, i am ready for it

by Wintertree



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Mutual Pining, Referenced Minor Canonical Character Death, Treat, one-sided Aveline Vallen/Hawke (background)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25578523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintertree/pseuds/Wintertree
Summary: “Hmm,” Bull says, scratching his chin and angling toward Cassandra, “have you met her before?”Cassandra shakes her head. Despite their overlap in social circles and general air of infamy, they’ve never actually spoken one on one.Bull grins. “Oh, this’ll be fun.”__It isnotfun.in which cass gets a crush, and hawke anxiously sweats and (poorly) pretends she doesn't have one either
Relationships: Female Hawke/Cassandra Pentaghast
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	take me home, i am ready for it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mytha/gifts).



> modern au! are they all humans? do they live in LA, or a modern day kirkwall? we just don't know! I kept all that vague and I never have bull's horns get in the way of anything, so it's entirely up to your interpretation. both bethany & carver are still alive if you're trying to do the mental math while reading.
> 
> rating wise, this fic is either a mild M or a spicy T, so i opted to go with M for safety. **See end notes for mild spoilers about tags and potential triggers.**
> 
> beta'd by my darling friend who i won't name by name ily <3 uwu

“So, just got off the phone with him,” Adaar says, stepping back toward their group. “Varric’s not coming, he’s sick.”

Dorian whines, and Cassandra can’t say she blames him.

Adaar purchased this Escape Room XTREME!! groupon weeks ago, as tacky as the name suggests, and it was murder finding a time that worked for everyone. They’ve already had to reschedule twice, and if Cassandra left her house late on a Wednesday evening for nothing, she’ll kill Varric herself.

It’s not that she even normally _enjoys_ these types of things, but Adaar wanted to go and Cassandra said yes and now she just wants it to happen and be _over_ with it. It’s herself, Dorian, Bull, Adaar, Varric, and Varric’s friend with a mustache who’s apparently a whiz at these, or something.

“Wait— not finished,” Adaar continues, “Apparently Varric’s roommate Hawke should be here in ten to take his spot.”

“Hmm,” Bull says, scratching his chin and angling toward Cassandra, “have you met her before?”

Cassandra shakes her head. Despite their overlap in social circles and general air of infamy, they’ve never actually spoken one on one.

Bull grins. “Oh, this’ll be _fun.”_

__  
  


It is _not_ fun.

Hawke is— ridiculous. First she bursts into the lobby like a whirlwind, and then she gets outrageously invested in her “character.” She pulls a tube of lipstick from a fanny pack—a fanny pack! even Cassandra knows those aren’t cool—and draws on her face as if it’s war paint. She somehow gets Bull into it, drawing on his face as well, though careful not to get too close to his eyepatch.

The conceit of their room is that they’ve fallen down into a hell dimension, and a nightmare demon is trying to keep them trapped until their souls are forever tainted (in exactly fifty-five minutes). 

_Cassandra_ is trying to work by following the clues. Hawke just bemoans the fate of the fake plastic skeletons in the room, ripping a sword off the walls before a bored-sounding employee asks her to _kindly stop doing that_ over the intercom.

Yet somehow Hawke’s good at it. More than once she comes over and easily solves a puzzle that Cassandra’s been struggling over, throwing her a wink when she does so. 

She somehow does not strangle Varric’s roommate.

At one point they unlock a panel to a secret room, and have to one by one make it through another portal to freedom or whatever. The game designers were elaborate, and Cassandra grudgingly respects the complexity of the puzzles, but they certainly didn’t put much effort into narrative coherency.

Cassandra is first out with a special portal passcode, followed shortly by Bull and Dorian. A minute or so later Adaar and the mustached man follow. Cassandra’s been told his name, but it’s too late to admit she forgot.

“Hawke—?” Cassandra asks.

Adaar opens his mouth to respond, but a loud buzzer signals the end of the fifty-five minutes.

“Oh no. You’ve abandoned one of your own. While returning to your lives in the real world might be considered a type of success,” the intercom blandly tells them, “the loss of your friend’s soul is an emotional wound that will never heal. Please wait for an employee to lead you back into the lobby.”

The door clicks open, and Hawke steps out with a sheepish smile on her face.

A bit later, after they have their picture taken (Bull holds Hawke like a corpse while Dorian and Adaar fake-cry), Bull nudges Cassandra with his elbow.

“Fun, huh?” he asks.

She snorts.

__  
  


Cassandra’s seated on her favorite bench at the park, pleasantly absorbed in her book in the late spring sun, when a dog bounds up to her. It’s not uncommon, this spot is popular with the dog owners in the neighborhood, but she recognizes the hound as Varric’s.

Panicking, she tries to hide the book behind her as she looks around for the man, but instead she finds Hawke at the other end of the leash. She’s a little out of breath, rings of sweat around the neck of her muscle tee. The arm holes are ridiculously low, and underneath her sports bra is an even more ridiculous neon green.

“Hey! Cassandra, right?” Hawke gently grips her dog by the collar with one hand and scratches behind her ear with the other. “We met at the escape thing a couple days ago.”

“I remember,” she says curtly. Ah, rude. She wills herself to relax, heart still beating wildly. It’s not Hawke’s fault she was caught. “You’re Varric’s roommate. It’s good to see you again. How is he?”

“Better. Still whines like a baby, but it’s easy enough to swaddle him in blankets and pour broth down his throat. Had to escape to give the monster a walk or I would have gone insane.” She scratches behind the dog’s ear. From this close, Cassandra can smell her sunscreen— citrusy, not the more common coconut. “You live around here?”

Cassandra gestures to the east. “Close, but you get a better breeze here than my porch.”

A second too late, Cassandra realizes her mistake. Gesturing only draws Hawke’s eyes to the book in her hand, and her eyes light up.

“Oh my god, is that one of Varric’s?” Hawke laughs boisterously, loud enough to draw attention from others seated on the nearby benches. “I love his romance imprint, it’s so, _so_ funny.”

“Yes, it is… something.” _Funny!_ Absurd, as if Cassandra hadn’t wept over the guardswoman being separated from her man at the beginning of the novel. Shameless, maybe. But funny? Absolutely not.

Hawke doesn’t take notice, plowing on. “ _Swords and Shields,_ huh? It’s not as much of a cash-cow as _Her Ladyship Divine,_ but we didn’t think his editor would let him get away with having the main girl shot—”

“She _cannot!_ ” Cassandra blurts out, horrified. 

“Wait a minute, do you _like_ it?” Hawke starts gleefully rocking back and forth. Her horror curdles into humiliation. “You’re not just reading it to bully him?”

“They are terrible, and they are,” Cassandra pauses but finishes mournfully, “wonderful.”

“I’m such an asshole, sorry for the spoilers!” she says. She doesn’t _sound_ sorry. “It’s the next in the series, if that helps.”

Cassandra blinks. “But this is the latest release.”

Hawke winks. _"Yes,_ but I get the advanced reader copies.” 

She closes her mouth with an audible click, faintly registering that she was gaping at Hawke.

With a laugh, Hawke just jerks her thumb toward the local coffee shop. “Come on, I’m starving. I’ll give you all the trade secrets.”

Despite its convenient location, Cassandra’s never been. She lives close enough to home that she just brings her thermos to the park rather than get tea here. Hawke shoos her to an outside table to keep watch over the dog while she goes up to the cashier. Cassandra tries to give her her card, but Hawke flatly refuses, claiming that since she invited her and knows the menu, she’ll treat. 

Hawke returns quickly with food, a paper plate loaded up with a ham sandwich, chocolate chip muffin, two drinks, and a couple of pastelillos. It’s too much, and Cassandra tries not to feel guilty for not more firmly offering to pay. 

Hawke grabs the sandwich and nudges the rest of the plate toward her. Cassandra politely cuts a piece of the muffin with a plastic knife, humming appreciatively. It _is_ a good muffin.

“Called it!” Hawke smugly pushes one of the ice coffees toward her. It’s a light tan, and she can see faint lines of caramel and a fine dusting of cinnamon on top. Hawke keeps what appears to be an Americano to herself. “Wasn’t sure if you had a sweet tooth or not. You’re going to want the caramel latte from here, _trust_ me.”

Cassandra scowls, but seeing as they’re here to discuss published erotica, her bruised ego can take it. She takes a sip, and it’s ungodly sweet. She doesn’t hate it. She takes another one.

Hawke jumps right into conversation, pulling at her phone to bring up sections of the unreleased novel to varying amounts of delight and dismay. Hawke is animated, gesturing wildly between stories, but slowly starts to calm down, adrenaline fading from her earlier hike as she feeds scraps of ham to her dog. She says rude things about perfectly good heroines, and only about a third of the statements seem designed to tease Cassandra. 

The conversation moves on to other romance series she enjoys, and Cassandra is shocked that Hawke can hold her own more often than not. Apparently she enjoys picking up titles with the funniest cover at the used book store, regardless of whether or not it’s the first in a series. Cassandra cannot fathom not starting at the beginning and methodically working your way through.

The pastelillos are flaky and savory on her tongue, and she’s itching to order a couple more, this time on her dime. Cassandra waits for an opening to ask Hawke if she wants anything else, but the woman glances at her phone and sighs heavily. She jams the remainder of her sandwich in her mouth and eats it alarmingly fast, standing as soon as she's done.

Cassandra stands with her, and then immediately feels silly. Truthfully, it didn’t feel like they’ve been talking for long, and there’s still plenty of coffee and ice left in her cup.

“I’ve got to get back to my poor sick boy, but we should do this again,” Hawke says. Cassandra freezes— do what again? Coffee? As acquaintances? “I’ve always wanted to start up a romance book club.”

Cassandra relaxes. “What for? You’ve been trying to convince me they’re silly since we sat down.”

“Sure, but silly is still _fun._ I had fun talking.” Hawke scratches at her belly, seemingly unbothered by her forthright words.

“I— I suppose I had fun as well. A book club could be entertaining.” Cassandra flounders, not sure if she wants to wrap up the conversation or extend it. “I—”

“What if—”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“It’s alright!” Hawke laughs, and Cassandra seals her mouth. “I keep cutting you off, go ahead.”

Wildly, Cassandra latches to the first thought in her head. “Do you and Varric live near here? Do you need a ride?”

“Nah, thank you though. We parked in the lot over there, but we’ve been out on a hike this morning, haven’t we, girl!” Hawke playfully pats the dog before extending her hand. “Gimme your phone.”

Cassandra dutifully passes it over, and Hawke snaps a quick selfie before assigning it as her contact and sending a quick text to herself _(“hello this is :eagle emoji:”)._

“No hawk emoji, which is bullshit, but you get what you get.” Hawke gives Cassandra one last bright smile before taking off, waving a hand over her shoulder. “I’ll call you!”

__  
  


Cassandra makes it all the way home before Hawke does in fact call her.

“Hey baby, what’re you wearing?”

Cassandra hangs up, viciously wishing she still had the heavy _clat!_ of her old flip phone. Leliana teased her over her reluctance to buy a new (and insanely expensive) phone, but the old one was practical and functional. At least, until the battery had to be held in with duct tape. As thrifty as she aims to be, Cassandra is still an adult with a mortgage and refuses to own anything covered in duct tape. 

The phone starts buzzing again with a new call, the blurry photo of Hawke grinning back at her. She barely knows Hawke, but she can already tell she’s going to be insufferable. She sends the call to voicemail and quickly drains the rest of her sickly sweet coffee, leaving only the ice at the bottom of the flimsy plastic to-go cup. Then for the first time in two years, Cassandra uses her fingernail to flick her phone _off_ of silent mode.

She lets the next call go for three rings before answering.

“Pleasepleaseplease okay, please don’t hang up. I’m serious about this book club idea and I have serious questions,” Hawkes breathes out in a rush. Cassandra can still hear her grin over the line.

“Then perhaps I could give you a serious answer.” Childishly, she tips an ice cube into her mouth and crunches it obnoxiously into the speaker.

Hawke chuckles, but methodically goes down a list of questions. It only takes a couple minutes to confirm the guest list, lock down a system of book nominations, cadence of meetings, and who’s sending out the initial invites, and so on. For all her whirlwind attitude, she’s surprisingly efficient on the phone and not afraid to make firm decisions _now_ rather than punting down the line. They’re of the same mind that it's easier to create a structured meeting in advance, but give room to adapt and be flexible based on who actually shows up.

“Perfect, I think that covers everything.” There’s silence over the line as they wind down. The remaining ice has melted in the cup, fresh and cold when Cassandra takes an absentminded sip. “You know, when I met you, you were so cool and serious. Who would have known you’re actually such a brat—”

This time when Cassandra jabs at the hangup button, the little key-typing _glunk_ sound effect is almost satisfying. 

__  
  


It takes a while to get the book club off the ground (Hawke had proposed some altogether too vulgar titles, and Cassandra refused to move forward if it wasn’t changed), but eventually they host their first meeting in Cassandra’s small condo.

It’s a good mixture of shared friends and acquaintances, although Cassandra flatly banned Varric since the beginning. Hawke’s friends seem nice but flaky, only a timid girl named Orana and a bit of an oddball named Merrill show up to the first meeting.

It comes to no one’s surprise that Hawke and Bull hit it off so well. Dorian complained that no one came with book questions prepared, but Bull laughed full-chested and proclaimed that book clubs are “an excuse to read about throbbing members and get day-drunk on bad sangria.” 

Neither Dorian nor Cassandra were pleased by that statement, but Hawke was delighted and stuck to him like glue for the remainder of the day. 

They end up meeting monthly, and by the third meeting it seems to be running smoother than she had hoped. Leliana makes continual excuses not to attend, but eventually Josephine is cajoled into joining. Cassandra had expected to be more embarrassed by talking with others about smutty literature of all things, but at least she doesn’t highlight and sticky note all the explicit sex scenes like _some_ people. She can barely look Josephine in the eye after she learned that about her.

She also knows Hawke’s tastes better now. Hawke hates an oblivious heroine, but the cheesier the romance, the more she loves it. She thought they would stop seeing each other now that it's up and running, but if anything she sees Hawke more. They text regularly, and talk on the phone every couple days when they’re not meeting up for coffee or a hike. 

It turns out there’s a small arthouse theater within driving distance Hawke’s apartment, and they’ve already gone to a couple screenings. Vivienne is normally the only person who would attend those things with her, but her department at the university is a mess lately and she rarely has time. It’s nice having someone to share new experiences with. To see an interesting poster and itch to call someone about it.

At the end of today’s meeting, she says goodbye to everyone, a little irritated she had to host again when the original host for this week had to back out at the last minute. Last to leave are Bull and Hawke, snickering in the corner and thicker than thieves.

Cassandra waits until she and Hawke are alone washing wine glasses to ask about it.

Hawke starts snickering again. “Varric got hustled into playing strip poker and Bull’s bribing me with evidence. Prime MAD material.”

“Mad?” Cassandra tries not to wrinkle her nose at the thought of Varric like that.

“Mutually Assured destruction.” Hawke takes the last glass from Cassandra’s and wipes it dry. “Go get your laptop, I’ll show you.”

Hawke’s finished cleaning by the time Cassandra boots up her computer. She types quickly, logging into a Dropbox on Incognito mode. 

“Varric’s going to kill me for telling you this,” Hawke groans gleefully.

She pulls up a folder, inside of which there is one titled “HAWKE MUST DIE.” and the other “ILY VARRIC<3”.

“Okay, I’m going to just show you mine, because if I show you Varric’s he really will kill me.” She double clicks on the HAWKE folder, revealing a long list of pictures, video clips, and a couple text documents. “Whenever we have something embarrassing on the other, we place it in our folders so we can mock each other but not have to sleep with one eye open. He doesn’t have permission to edit anything in my folder, and vice versa. God, I love a good piece of blackmail.”

“Insane,” laughs Cassandra. “Show me something.” 

They click through for a bit. Hawke’s right, she does love a good piece of blackmail. She proudly shows off photos with french fries up her nose, or a couple of her falling flat on her face. There’s a clip of a home movie being recorded on an iPhone; Hawke is in her late teens sporting a mullet, and her little sister smiles beatifically at the camera while her little brother flips off Hawke from behind emo bangs.

Cassandra’s stomach hurts from clenching back laughter when they sort through and end up on another clip.

Hawke’s a bit older now, mullet traded in for an undercut. The footage is grainy, and she’s at some bar, drunk out of her mind. Varric yells something unintelligible from behind the cameraphone. Hawke drapes herself onto another girl, tall and stocky with shoulder length copper hair.

The audio quality is tinny and poor in a 2012 sort of way, but it’s just audible enough to hear the woman yell— _“I think I’m going to get remarried.”_

_“I’m in love with you,”_ young Hawke replies. Cassandra sharply inhales.

The woman turns and cradles Hawke’s face in her large hands.

 _“I love you, too,”_ the woman says, grinning widely. _“You’re my best friend, I want you to be my maid of honor—”_

“Ahh, that’s enough of that one,” Hawke says in the present. She clicks to the next entry, a photo of herself as a young child eating a fistful of mayonnaise. “Much better. Physical comedy over emotional schadenfreude any day of the week.”

Cassandra clears her throat. “Hawke—”

“It’s alright, really. Don’t look so sad on my behalf.” Hawke logs out of the account and gently shuts the laptop. “She’s a dear friend, just pants at romance. Hey, that kinda rhymed!”

Unsure of what to say next, Cassandra awkwardly laughs.

Hawke rubs her chin thoughtfully. “You know what might cheer us both up?” She grabs her phone off the table. “Should I show you the naked photo of Varric?”

Cassandra slaps Hawke’s phone out of her hand.

__  
  


“Reservation under Tethras,” Cassandra says. “Should be a party of six.”

She’s at some new shiny foodie restaurant for brunch, one she never heard of before Hawke texted her the address earlier in the week. Usually Hawke begs and pleads until she’s dragging Cassandra to some exhausting activity. But they’ve known each other about five months now, and this is the first time Hawke extended an invite without immediately bullying her into accepting. Instead this time she said things like _We had someone drop out at brunch_ and _You can say no if you want._

Annoying. Of course she knows she can say “no.” Hawke should be honest if she wants her there or not. It’s just that, well... she _does_ want to. Generally, it _is_ as fun as it is horrifying to spend time together. It doesn’t help to let Hawke get a big head about it, though. 

The restaurant is trendy, trendy enough Cassandra feels awkward in just her shirt and slacks, and tries not to make eye contact with any of the dozen patrons wearing inappropriately fashionable hats. Indoors. They all look wealthy and too-put-together too, in that way that makes you wonder if they’re a minor internet celebrity or just a fitness trainer. She gets the ridiculous impulse to cuff her pants another couple inches or shave half her head.

The hostess is still trying to find the reservation when Cassandra catches a thread of Hawke’s laugh above the din. She waves off the apologetic and harried hostess to make her way to the booth.

It’s just Hawke and Varric, and they don’t seem to notice her approach. They’ve got drinks already, a simple black coffee for Hawke and a Bloody Mary for Varric, and an appetizer plate between them. As she gets closer, they get audible over the chatter of everyone else.

“—mean it, Varric. Be nice.”

“Hey, hey! I’m _always_ nice. Not my fault you latch onto any straight girl that gives you attention.”

“Fuck you.” Hawke throws a piece of biscuit at Varric. Cassandra stops dead still. Is she the straight girl? Hawke’s joked more than once that Cassandra is the ‘token straight’ at book club. 

From where she’s standing, she can see them, but they’ll have trouble noticing her through a giant fake fern that clashes with the fake moss decorations on the wall.

“You’ve got type.” Varric sniffs loudly. “Sad.”

Ears burning, Cassandra takes a couple steps back and then walks forward into the center of the room; into Hawke’s eyeline, but far enough away that she couldn’t eavesdrop even if she wanted. 

Sure enough, a moment later she hears Hawke beckoning her over. 

“Cass! Sit next to me. The drinks are overpriced but I could murder a plate of biscuits by myself.” 

“Then I’ll order you another plate.” Cassandra slips into the booth and breaks off half of one. They’re flaky and warm, and melt on her tongue. “But I won’t lie to the cops about it.”

“My hero!” Hawke croons, clutching her arm. There’s a loud buzzing, and Hawke let’s go to answer her phone. “What’s up, where are you?”

Hawke mouths ‘Merrill’ to Varric, who nods and rolls his eyes good-naturedly. 

“Wait just— wait what street are you on? Hold on now, just wait there. I know, hold on.” Hawke clambers over Cassandra’s lap before she has time to move, and places a palm against the receiver. “I’m gonna go wave Merrill down. Varric—”

“I know, I know,” he says, waving her off. “Go get her.”

Hawke gives a mock salute and a moment later, it's just the two of them.

Cassandra busies herself by looking at the dizzyingly long cocktail list.

“So, Seeker. You and Hawke are getting… cozy,” Varric says.

“We spend time together, yes.” Cassandra rolls her eyes at him. Tell a man you were briefly on a Quidditch team once, and he lords it over you for a lifetime. She was only on the team for a season, and didn’t even play that position. At least he never found her Harry x Hermione fanfiction or she would have strangled him to death ages ago. “People enjoy my presence. It’s been known to happen.”

She chooses not to hear him mutter disbelief.

“It’s nice being the center of her attention, isn’t it?” Varric adds, conversationally. He takes the other half of the biscuit. “Makes you feel shiny and special. And the best-slash-worst part of it is, she’s completely genuine about it. It can get addictive.”

Cassandra doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“She’s got a big heart,” he continues, an edge to his words, “but it bruises easily. Just be honest with her.”

“I _am_ honest with her,” Casandra says, genuinely baffled. 

His face twists, but she’s saved from having to suffer the rest of this bizarre conversation when Hawke returns with Merrill by her side. They’re standing quite close, and Cassandra tries not to wrinkle her nose in disgust in response to the girl’s patchouli perfume. For some reason she’s never noticed it at book club before.

“Literally found her two feet from the door. Merrill, you know Cassandra, etcetera etcetera.” Hawke sits next to Cassandra, pushing her toward the wall of the booth. And then to Cassandra’s annoyance, Hawke pulls at Merrill until she sits next to her on their side of the booth.

Varric spreads against his totally empty side. “What am I, chopped liver?”

“Oh no, Varric! You look lovely.”

Varric’s brittle demeanor softens the most it’s been all morning. “Thank you, Daisy, I haven’t seen you in ages.”

There’s some brief chatter about places and things Cassandra is unfamiliar with, but she tries her best to active listen and be engaged. Merrill’s a bit crunchy-granola for Cassandra’s type, and that’s coming from someone who was friends with Leliana during her hemp jewelry phase, but she’s as sweet as she usually is at book club, and it’s obvious that both Varric and Hawke adore her.

After a lull in the conversation, Merrill picks up the obnoxiously large menu and makes cooing noises over the vegan options. Hawke’s practically vibrating out of her skin and—

Suddenly Cassandra gets it. She acted so weird inviting Cassandra because she actually cares how this day will go, what it’s like for Cassandra to casually hang out with her friends outside of an activity. Hawke is nervous. Hawke is nervous whether they’ll all get along. But Cassandra can’t tell if Hawke is worried Cassandra won’t like her closest friends, or if they won’t like her. She feels nauseous.

Desperately, Cassandra racks her brain for conversation starters, but like always Hawke beats her to the punch.

“Oh! Cass, I got the cutest photo from last weekend, have I shown it to you yet?” 

“No, you have not,” Cassandra breathes out. “Please show me.”

Hawke whips out her phone, quickly sliding through what appears to be an endless supply of photos of her dog.

“Oh, and here’s a good one of other Carver too!” Hawke angles the phone, but shuffles up closer, a warm line down Cassandra’s side. Cassandra tries not to spook at the contact. It’s not… unwelcome, per say. But it’s awkward. She never knows how some people can truly just _touch_ either other completely unconsciously. Cassandra has never been unaware of her body in her life. Plus, Varric’s aggressively chomping down on the celery in his Bloody Mary from across the table like he’s got a bone to pick.

Hawke’s words register, and Cassandra blinks to take a closer look at the photo. “Wait, ‘other Carver’? I thought— that’s your dog’s name, no?” She was the last time she saw her dog tag.

“Yeah,” she says, almost wistfully. “Her name’s Carver.”

“And… that man is—”

“Her brother, Carver,” pipes up Merrill, face still completely hidden from behind the giant menu. The man in the photo, scowling at getting squashed by a 120lb dog, does unmistakably look like the kid who had emo bangs in the video.

Cassandra's mouth twitches and turns back to Hawke. “And he, your human brother Carver, is okay with that? That your dog has the same name as him?”

Hawke laughs, quick and bright. “Oh christ no, he fucking hates it. Put me in a headlock when I first told him and still won’t refer to her by name, which is quite rude if you ask me.” Hawke starts swiping through her album, pulling up dozens of photos of Carver the dog. “Plus, his form was sloppy and I broke out of the headlock in seconds. He has to be a better scrapper if he wants me to actually do what he wants.”

Cassandra tries not to look horrified. She and Anthony used to spar as children, but they were training in the same martial arts classes. It was practice only.

Merrill puts down her menu. “Do you have any siblings, Cassandra?” 

“I— yes.” Cassandra wills her face neutral and plays with the condensation on her glass. “A brother.”

“And do the two of you still talk?”

“No.” It’s too simple of an answer, but she doesn’t want to talk about it. Not here, at this ridiculous hipster brunch in front of Hawke’s oldest friends. She must not be doing a good enough job controlling her face, because Hawke looks at her quizzically. Or maybe it’s because she never mentioned Anthony to her before.

“I suppose I’m the only one here without a tense fraternal relationship,” Merrill chirps. “Then again, I don’t have any brothers. I do have about two dozen estranged cousins, though.”

Varric coughs. “That’s certainly a way to put it, Daisy.”

He loudly calls over their server for another round of cocktails and changes the subject to complain about an annoying marketing exec screwing over the launch of his upcoming mystery series. Cassandra could kiss him. She wouldn’t be surprised if Varric was aware of her brother, him being one of the nosiest out of her friends, but she’s grateful Varric knows enough not to tease. 

She can tell Hawke is still puzzled though, so she leans in softly to say, “Later.”

Hawke nods, and gives her a quick affectionate squeeze on her thigh. It’s innocuous, just friendly, but Cassandra can feel her cheeks heat.

Something—or someone—catches Hawke’s eye, and she breaks into a dazzling grin and nearly falls of the booth waving both arms. Curious, Cassandra follows her eye path and sees a tall, well-built red-headed woman striding over to their table.

“Hi, hello— ah wait, who are we still missing?” the woman asks, running her fingers through short-cropped hair.

Hawke gestures to Varric’s side of the booth. “Just you two, babe, you’re last on the scene. Small crew this time.”

“Damn. Alright, fine. First round’s on us, I suppose, although I see you bastards have already moved onto round two without me.” The woman sits wearily in one of the empty spots before turning to Cassandra with a kind expression. “I’m Aveline, and it’s nice you meet you. Hawke’s told me a lot about you.”

Ears pink, Cassandra says hello back. She realizes why the woman looked so familiar— the short hair made her hard to place immediately, but now she recognizes Aveline as the woman in the bar video with Hawke. The woman Hawke was in love with one-sidedly. Cassandra surreptitiously studies the side of Hawke’s face, but she seems normal. She almost misses the flush high on Hawke’s chest.

Belatedly, she realizes Aveline is still talking to her. 

“I’m sorry that that one dragged you into this. Be sure never to be the last to arrive, especially because _this_ one,” Aveline gestures at Varric who gives an innocent _who? me?_ look back, “likes to cheat and lie about reservation time to always get here first.”

“Lies! Slander! By the way, where’s the ole ball and chain anyways? I’ve got an IOU worth forty bucks burning a hole in my wallet,” Varric says. 

“Dealing with the valet, you short cheap prick,” Aveline snaps back, although with good humor. Cassandra notices the flash of a gold band around Aveline’s ring finger.

The conversation starts to flow easier from there, especially when Aveline’s husband, Donnic, arrives, and is decreed the designated driver. (And also responsible for another round of mimosas.) Cassandra’s glad that this is a “small” crew for brunch, and realizes Hawke must have done that on purpose to ease her entrance into the friend group. The table regales her with embarrassing stories about the missing table members that make her laugh, and also deeply thankful that she’s not going to be pulled into a screaming match over politics, at least for today. This amount of people is overwhelming enough, and she already knows two of them quite well.

Cassandra feels pleasantly buzzed and lightheaded by the time her extra-spicy chilaquiles arrive. They’re nice and hot like she likes, and somehow she’s got a sangria in front of her although she doesn’t remember ordering it. She hums, liking the taste and how it tingles her lips before spreading warm down her throat.

“Sip,” she demands, and Hawke dutifully does so before pulling a face.

“Too sweet,” Hawke complains.

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise at Hawke’s stupidity. _All_ alcohol tastes bad. At least now it mostly just tastes like apple, peach, and grape juice. Still, she feels bad, so she puts a couple forkfuls of her meal on Hawke’s plate, careful to get a good piece of meat and some sour cream.

Hawke pokes at it, mock suspiciously, but when she takes a bite and her eyes water from the spice, her face lights up appreciatively. 

Cassandra’s eye keeps getting pulled to Aveline and her clearly doting relationship with her husband, who keeps propping her up as Aveline lists to the side. 

Did she really not know what Hawke meant? Was Aveline that oblivious to her heart? Cassandra can’t tell if Hawke _still_ has lingering feelings. She treats Aveline just like any of the other friends around the table.

Looking up, Cassandra catches Varric's eye across the table. He gives her a Look, but Cassandra is too relaxed and enjoying herself to pick it apart.

__  
  


Cassandra isn’t _stupid._

She knows that Hawke likely… feels, about things. About her. It’s not just the little offhanded compliments, it’s also how Hawke sometimes looks at her.

In addition to meeting up at different coffee shops, they end up regularly going together to the local farmers market. Apparently Hawke is a morning person of all people, it's just that she’s out of the habit because she can’t drag Varric out before 12pm. One day, Cassandra’s running too late to change out of her jogging shorts and Hawke stares at her legs, jaw snapping shut a couple seconds later. She registers that Cassandra clocked her once-over and grins, switching gears to make a joke of it, giving her an obvious leer until Cassandra brushes past her. Hawke still bullies her all day, forcing them to compare leg hair.

(Cassandra doesn’t shave, but Hawke does every once in a while out of sheer boredom or because it gets too long and uncomfortable under skinny jeans. She never shaves over the knee, the hair light, wispy and soft. She _knows_ it’s soft because Hawke goads her into rubbing appreciatively a couple inches above the knee. Hawke laughs her off a second later, somehow mildly embarrassed despite the whole situation being her own damn fault.)

It’s not that it’s _unwelcome._ Cassandra’s never been ashamed of her body. She knows she’s considered relatively attractive, and she admits to indulging in pride over her athleticism, but she never feels— never felt _pretty._ And Hawke’s gaze isn’t an oppressive weight like it sometimes is with strangers. Cassandra doesn’t preen, exactly, but there are worse things than having Hawke’s appreciation.

And Hawke does appreciate her. It’s not always physical. It’s like how Hawke can always sniff out the best heirloom tomato at the market like a truffle-hunting pig. It’s absurd. Hawke is allergic to nightshades, but presents it to Cassandra with the utmost confidence that it’s going to be the tartest, most flavorful purchase of the week. (And she’s often right.)

Or it’s like how Cassandra will wake up to links and articles, little things that Hawke saw and thought she might enjoy too. When they go to a used book store, Cassandra sometimes hesitates over an older edition of a book of poetry she loves, but it would be too frivolous to buy a second version of it. And then she catches Hawke pulling it out for herself when she doesn’t think Cassandra is watching. Like she wants to read it not to placate Cassandra, but because maybe it’s something new they could share together. 

Whenever Hawke joins her for a run, she’s silent for once, just like Cassandra prefers. Able to focus on her burning muscles, the repetitive sounds of feet hitting pavement, clearing her mind and leaving her feeling scooped out and empty, totally calm despite her pounding heart rate. And after the run, Hawke runs her _mouth,_ breezily chatting one sided, leaving Cassandra grateful and amused as she surfaces back into human speech.

At the book club, whenever someone says something utterly inane, Hawke always looks to Cassandra first. Just a little look like, _what the hell did she just say??,_ but always at her _first._ At _her_ first. Like they’re a little insular team with inside jokes, judging everyone else outside. Cassandra has to bite on the inside of her cheek, hard, to keep from laughing out loud. Hawke likes that, when she can pester Cassandra into being just a bit rude.

Once, Hawke dragged Cassandra out for drinks and dancing with their friends. Varric was off somewhere, holding court by the smokers, and Cassandra was well into her third martini to make the music even partially bearable. Some guy kept trying to get Hawke’s attention, grinding against her without even a hello. Cassandra was so annoyed—she only came because Hawke begged her, she’s not going to be _alone_ in this dingy bar _—_ she physically blocked the guy off with her body, refusing to acknowledge his presence until he stormed off, frustrated and shut down.

Hawke huffed a laugh and draped herself against Cassandra, head tucked close to her ear to be heard over the awful blaring music. “So mean! So cruel to that lonely man!”

Cassandra rolled her eyes, but wrapped an arm around Hawke’s waist so she wouldn’t stumble. “Were you actually into that? He was ugly.”

Probably. She hadn’t been able to get a look at his face but he _seemed_ ugly, she thought mulishly.

“You’re so mean!” Hawke hooted, clearly delighted. “No, he’s lame. And ugly. Didn’t even ask before he put his arm around me— no! No, baby, don’t pull away. This is nice.” Hawke sighed, and shifted more of her weight onto Cassandra. Cassandra’s mind flicked to the memory of Hawke leaning against Aveline. She noticed that the small of Hawke’s back was so warm, and a little sweaty. She didn’t mind. “You’re so hot when you’re mean to strangers. I like it. I could have pushed him off but it was _so_ much better watching you do it. You’re so cool and intimidating.”

That’s what her uncle always said, with a laugh, when she was young. _You’re so intimidating, Cassie! Perhaps boys would ask you to dance if you didn’t glare at them._ Anthony would change the subject; he could tell that it upset her, but he also never disagreed.

Because it’s true, she _is_ intimidating to most people.

Not Hawke, though. She can level full glares at her, and all Hawke does is tease or charm her until Cassandra can feel herself physically softening. And it feels like a compliment, like Hawke puffs up with pride whenever they arrive somewhere together. _Look who I brought! My friend can beat up your friend!_

Hawke will just _look_ at her sometimes, eyes sliding over her, before quickly rabbiting back. Cassandra recognizes it, the attraction. But for all her teasing and flirting, it’s never with clear _intention._ Never once is it, _Are we doing this? Is this serious?_

Hawke is careful to walk right up to that line, but never cross it. It’s maddening. It makes Cassandra want to grit her teeth, to shake Hawke and demand to be serious for once, to be honest. As it is, Cassandra can’t say anything. Can’t get the record straight that the compliments are flattering, but that’s all it is. And all it’s going to be.

And she just can’t tell for certain. Maybe it _is_ just aesthetic appreciation on Hawke’s part. Cassandra has never had a friend so open, so giving with affection.

If she says something now, completely out of the blue, it’ll be beyond mortifying for the both of them. Hawke wouldn’t laugh at her, not for this, but maybe her face will get tight and she’ll cough awkwardly and _I’m sorry, it really wasn’t my— I just don’t feel that way about you_ and Cassandra will immediately die. Or worse, she will be _right_ and she’ll have to see Hawke shutter down, crushed. The ghost of Varric chuckling _you’ve got a type_ in the back of her mind on repeat. Cassandra doesn’t want to be another one of Hawke’s regrets, another one of—

“Have you ever considered you might just be into her?” Bull asks.

Cassandra gapes at him, yanked out mid-venting session, but he just innocently sips at his protein shake through the straw.

“Excuse me?” she sputters. Ridiculously, she looks around the gym cafe, as if anyone is eavesdropping or knows who they’re even talking about. Bull was supposed to be on _her_ side, she thinks petulantly. He had flirted with her something awful— _and still does!_ —but they’re friends. She’s more comfortable and at ease in his presence than the majority of her friends, despite how often he tries to shock her. He was supposed to be _helpful._

“It just seems like you’re more upset that she might be joking, not that she might be flirting.”

“I’m straight?” Cassandra says, and winces. Rather than see whatever look Bull is making, she chugs her smoothie and immediately regrets it as soon as it triggers a brain freeze.

Bull rubs her shoulder, wide hands giving her the firm, even pressure she likes as her head slowly stops throbbing.

She relaxes, but talks into her drink miserably. “I’m too old for this.”

“That’s bullshit,” he says, not unkindly. “And you’ve been good recently. Happy. Go and chase the happiness and all that crap, Cass. You deserve it.”

“But what if I’m wrong?” Tired with feeling like a fool, she straightens her back and meets his gaze head on. “And then I’ve ruined a relationship with a dear friend. I don’t know how to make it casual and walk away after.”

“That could happen— hey, it’s true! Don’t glare. It’s happened to me before, and it sucks. But there’s a difference between investigating your feelings and overhyping the idea of a relationship. Just take some time to think about it.”

“Perhaps,” she says.

Bull smiles at her, and changes the subject to loudly boast about his most recent conquest. He’s vivid enough that the surrounding tables actually do start to perk their ears, and he only gets more expressive, feeding on the energy of the performance. Days like this remind her why she loves the damn fool.

__  
  


Cassandra tries to think of— hot women? 

She grimaces, already embarrassed. What does that even _mean?_ She thinks back on the covers of all the magazines she refuses to admit reading at the checkout, and finds it somehow impossible to think of a single celebrity. Angelina Jolie? She’s still a heartthrob, isn’t she? The most recent movie she’s seen of hers was _First They Killed My Father,_ but when she tries to think of Angelina Jolie’s face, she only has a fuzzy image of the poster for that ridiculous movie with the cargo pants.

Crossly, Cassandra conjures up a picture of Hawke in her mind. Why bother with the hypothetical when there’s a real, very annoying person at the center of this. If she wanted to interrogate the memory of every woman she may or may not have had a childhood crush on, she’d just go back to therapy. The whole point of this exercise is to “investigate” Hawke, not the entire concept of womanhood and it’s intersection with her own desires. 

The first image that comes to mind is almost a caricature: Hawke in a silly Victoria Secret outfit, obnoxious wings and all.

She snorts to herself. Ridiculous. Why others find that sexy, she can’t imagine. Her mind drifts to the bodice rippers she has stashed away in the back of the bookshelf. They are equally ridiculous, but at least it’s not as aggressively sexual in a hardcore kind of way. 

The heroines have simple shifts of worn cotton. Or— or silk, maybe satin. Something delicate, not gaudy.

Hawke would look good in that. Something, something simple. Maybe not _elegant,_ but. Nice. Expensive. Sleek and cool, a pale blue in the summer. Cassandra shifts in bed, rolling onto her stomach.

Cassandra has a couple chemises like that. A birthday present to herself some odd couple of years ago. It doesn’t truly seem to fit Hawke’s personality. Nor herself, she supposes. She generally imagines someone demure wearing them, but she's a bit too blunt to get that same effect. 

But she sort of likes the idea of Hawke laughing. Not _at_ her, but the way she gets when something surprises her, like it’s so exciting and overwhelming that it bursts out of her chest. Like the idea of Cassandra in something soft and pretty is something she didn't think it was possible to have, and now she does, just for her.

Maybe she’d tease Cassandra a bit, make her twirl. Refuse to touch her with anything more than light touches with the pads of her fingers, warm little points of heat through the thin fabric.

When she was with her last lover, she slipped under the covers quickly, too awkward to make a show of her outfit. But the question burned on her tongue and eventually she asked him what he thought of her chemise. He made a crass joke of liking them better on her floor. He didn’t stay her lover for long.

Besides, even when she was younger she never understood the appeal of overly lacy intimates. They looked pretty, objectively, but her mind would wander—as it was now—and she could never shut off the part of her that would always point out _that will get itchy!_ without fail.

She always thought it was a sexier look to come out in the morning, nothing but his button-up—

Huh. She shifts again in the bed, hand creeping down.

Her mind snaps back to Hawke, the powder blue of the silk shift getting swapped out with a more intense blue of an oxford shirt. Or, or maybe—

The image of Hawke changes again. Hawke’s one of Cassandra’s shirts, the soft, off-white linen that was always a bit too big on her frame. In her mind, it goes up another size, big enough that her fingertips are _just_ peeking out from behind the cuffs.

Cassandra is seated now, by her side at the table. The sun is warm and yellow like honey against the side of her face.

Maybe there even is a bit of honey on her tongue. Hawke breaking off a piece of toast, butter and honey drizzled on top, trading quick bites. She leans over— 

No, Hawke’s back at the entrance to the kitchen. She stretches her arms above her head, and for a heart-stopping moment, the shirt almost lifts entirely— but it stops just shy. She comes around to the head of the table where Cassandra is, holding the toast in her mouth as she sits on the meat of Cassandra’s thighs.

She’s warm, and Cassandra has to tip her head back a bit to make eye contact. Oh, that’s nice. Not a lot of people make Cassandra feel small. And while they’re about the same height and size, sitting in her lap gives Hawke the slightest bit of an advantage. And she milks it, of course Hawke does, taking every inch to stretch it into a mile, powerful and in control as she looks down at Cassandra, maybe grabbing her chin and moving her where she wants her.

The toast disappears, and Cassandra lets her hands fall heavy on Hawke’s thighs where they’re stretched and bracket her own. 

A couple buttons are undone, and Hawke slowly— _slowly_ unbuttons a couple more until the shirt is all the way open until an inch or two above her belly button. It should be indecent, but it’s not yet, because she’s still, she’s so still, and she’s got a bit of a grin on her face, like she knows that if they move, if they move at all, the shirt will fall open and Cassandra will be able to grab her waist with hot hands, throw her back on the table to shock into another one of her little surprised delighted laughs, shirt pulling all the way up until Cassandra finally can—

Cassandra blinks back to lucidity, breathing hard and hot against her mattress, almost surprised that it’s over already. Her pillow is somewhere, and she can’t be bothered to care where.

“Fuck,” she mutters.

__  
  


She kicks Bull’s ass twice at the boxing gym, merciless, until he mock cowers from her. 

With a sigh, she passes him his water bottle. “I’ve come to a conclusion.”

He doesn't ask a conclusion to _what,_ just grins at her wickedly and blinks his stupid one-eyed wink.

She acknowledges it with a sweaty towel to his face.

__  
  


Cassandra and Hawke make loose plans to see a movie, a foreign title at the little art house near Hawke’s apartment. Cassandra is grateful; she likes romance in books, but shiny blockbusters are too cloying for her to get fully immersed.

Normally Hawke would swing by to pick up Cassandra, but today Cassandra sends a quick text telling Hawke to wear pants and something warm.

Smugly, she thinks she makes the right choice when she pulls up to Hawke’s apartment on her motorcycle and Hawke stops in her tracks to give her a gratifying once-over. Cassandra doesn’t ride it often, but she knows she looks good on it, and she’s wearing her favorite leather jacket, a rich brown and butter-soft. 

She tosses Hawke the extra helmet, and for once she’s silent when she sits on the back of the bike, arms hugging tight around Cassandra’s middle.

Cassandra drives them carefully and impeccably, until Hawke eventually stops squeezing every time they go around a curve. Cassandra misses it faintly, but she wouldn’t risk their safety to drive more daringly. She does fantasize about it, though, all through the film that Cassandra objectively should like but finds impossible to focus on.

Both too soon and forever later, the film ends and they trickle onto the pavement, night cool and crisp, although clouds blot out the moon and stars. Hawke is chatty, talking about what she liked and didn’t (apparently Cassandra totally missed the subtext behind the aunt and her neighbor’s son, which she finds distasteful and glad her time was better spent daydreaming elsewhere).

On the ride back home, Hawke is more confident on the bike. At one point, she lets her head rest on Cassandra’s shoulder and keeps it there. At a red light Cassandra sneaks a peek at Hawke, her eyes closed and a faint smile playing on her lips.

Cassandra invites herself up to Hawke’s empty apartment, a little chilly in the late autumn. Varric’s somewhere with the dog, so it’s just the two of them as Hawke continues the conversation from earlier. Cassandra tries to hold her own, even without having an opinion on the movie, but she can’t quiet the voice going _tell her tell her._

And tell her what, exactly? She got off thinking about her friend in her kitchen? That she itches to touch her, to confidently press up beside her on the couch and run a finger along her jaw? 

She starts sweating, but realizes after a moment it’s not just her nerves; the apartment’s heating finally kicked in and Cassandra’s still wearing her leather jacket. 

There’s a lull in the conversation, and Cassandra panics for a moment thinking she dropped the ball. But Hawke’s staring at the windows with a concerned furrow to her brow.

She stands suddenly and pulls back their curtains, revealing it’s begun to rain. Now that she sees it, Cassandra realizes that there's been soft sounds of rain for a while now.

“Oh Cass, you need to go now,” Hawke says. Cassandra’s chest twists. She hasn’t had the nerve to talk to Hawke yet, and now the night is over already. She groans internally. Cassandra doesn’t know if she has it in her to go through all of this again.

Trying not to show her disappointment, Cassandra smiles and agrees.

But by the time Hawke walks her down to the street, the rain increases in it’s ferocity. It’s nearly torrential as they peak out into the storm from under the awning, and with a pang of anxiety straight to her chest, Cassandra realizes what this means.

Hawke must realize it too, because she gently leads Cassandra back up to her apartment without hesitation. “It’s late, stay over.”

It _is_ late, almost 10:30pm.

“If it’s not an imposition,” Cassandra asks, hesitantly. But her reserves are already crumbling. There’s no way her bike would fit in the back of Hawke’s used Toyota Yaris, and even if Hawke gives her a ride tonight, it would be a hassle to have to call a Lyft in the morning to come back, and—

“Cass, seriously. I can’t kick you out in this. You’ll end up as half-drowned roadkill. One second.” Hawke whips out her phone to send a series of texts, fingers a blur. “Stay the night, it’s what friends are for.”

Cassandra hums in agreement, ignoring the little pang at Hawke referring to the two of them as friends. They are, of course, it’s been made clear to Cassandra by both words and actions, but. It’s nice.

“This’ll be fun!” Hawke promises. “Proper sleepover shit. Girls Night, etc.” Hawke’s phone starts buzzing, and she goes back texting with determination. 

Awkwardly, Cassandra finally shrugs off her jacket. “I never had sleepovers growing up.”

“Cass, that is literally the saddest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Hawke says, eyes wide and attention finally away from her phone. “I feel like I’m talking to a sickly little Victorian child.”

Cassandra throws the jacket at Hawke’s face. Laughing, Hawke’s herds them both into the kitchen and has Cassandra keep watch over a bag of popcorn in the microwave.

Hawke disappears for a moment and resurfaces in yellow-plaid sweatpants and one of her ridiculous muscle tanks. Peeking out from the armholes, she can see Hawke chose a bralette this time. 

“Here,” she says, shoving a folded stack of clothing into her arms. “This should all fit you, too.”

Cassandra nods, refusing to blush.

In the bathroom, she takes a good hard look at herself in the mirror. She’s not sure she enjoys what she sees looking back at her. Tired, a little stressed. 

Sighing, she puts on Hawke’s borrowed pajamas. The shirt is a thick cotton, but soft and well-worn. A muted dark red with The Hanged Man’s bar logo on the back, which clashes with the red shorts Hawke also gave her. They smell like Hawke’s detergent, clean and fresh.

Back in the main room, Hawke has a second bag of popcorn going, and separates the first into two bowls. 

“Going for a sampler course here,” Hawke calls over her shoulder. “That bowl has garlic and onion powder, this one has furikake, thinking the third will be like a cinnamon something on the sweet end, and you can—”

Hawke peters out when Cassandra steps up beside her. Hawke stares at her shorts. 

“I can?” Cassandra asks.

“Yeah.” Hawke blinks and looks at Cassandra with a grin. “You can pick flavor profile number four. Clothes fit okay?”

“Yes. They are comfortable.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Hawke coughs. “The shorts have pockets.”

The microwave beeps and Hawke steps away to take care of the popcorn.

Cassandra puts her hands on her shorts. They _do_ have pockets.

Eventually Cassandra lands on chili pepper seasoning, and they assemble the spread on the coffee table in front of the television. 

With a sly expression, Hawke presses play on the queued up video.

“What’s this?” Cassandra asks, heart dropping. She recognizes the music and already knows the answer.

 _“Love Is Blind._ A group of strangers sit in a bunch of individual rooms— excuse me, _pods—_ and have a week to ‘fall in love’ without ever having seen each other through a wall. And _then_ they have like a month to get legally married.” Hawke lounges on the couch, self-satisfied and smug. “You’re going to hate it.”

“Hm.” Cassandra stuffs a handful of garlic popcorn in her face rather than dignify that with an answer. 

They watch the pilot without issue, Hawke giving little snide comments that leave Cassandra equal parts annoyed and amused. She slips up on the second episode, snorting derisively at something one of the overly macho guys says. 

Cassandra feels the blood drain from her face when she notices Hawke staring at her intently.

Understanding dawns on her. “Holy shit. You’ve already seen this.”

“Perhaps,” Cassandra says, lip twisting.

Hawke shrieks and belts her with a throw pillow.

“Why lie! You read _way_ more embarrassing stuff than this.”

“Be quiet!” Cassandra tugs the pillow away from Hawke’s loose grip and hits her repeatedly in the face until she cries surrender.

“You shouldn’t have let me force you to watch something you’ve already _seen,”_ Hawke whines after finally catching her breath. “Also, that was peak Girls Night. Later we should mud wrestle.”

“I don’t mind it.” Cassandra flop against the armrest and digs her cold toes under Hawke’s thigh. “Although it is a ridiculous premise.”

“Hm, I dunno. The short engagement part is a bit extreme, but people do bond under pressure and vulnerability and all that.” Hawke loosely grabs her ankle, rubbing slow circles against her ankle bone.

Cassandra shrugs. She feels too cozy to argue one way or the other.

“Wait. Let’s do it.” Hawke sits straight up, jostling off of Cassandra and leaving her feeling cold again. Hawke clicks the show on mute and sits criss-cross on the couch with her back to Cassandra. “Come on, let’s bare our souls without looking at each other. Emotional vulnerability! Girls Night!” 

With a huff, Cassandra gestures to the gussied up contestants on screen. “We’re not dressed right. I didn’t bring any cocktail dresses.” But she mirrors her and presses up against Hawke’s broad back anyways.

Hawke laughs, and Cassandra can feel the warm vibrations all down her back. “Well they’re stupid. Correct way to bond when no one can see you is in sweats. Now tell me a secret, or something surprising.”

“You just made a coherent point.”

“Rude!” Hawke shrieks, digging her fingers in Cassandra’s side. Cassandra forces herself not to flinch, but doesn’t bother hiding her grin. “So, so mean.”

“Tell me one first.”

“Hmm.” Hawke falls silent. “This apartment is rent controlled, so the only way Varric or I would ever leave is if we get married or murdered.”

“I’m happy to point the finger at Varric if you end up suspiciously missing.”

“That’s all I ask. Your turn.”

This would be the perfect time to say something, but the conversation still feels too light. “I was raised by my uncle because my parents were political prisoners.”

Cassandra winces. _Too_ heavy. Idiot girl.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.” Hawke’s voice sounds gentle.

“It’s alright, I was quite young.” Cassandra searches for something to stay. “You lived with your uncle too, no?”

Hawke chuckles, but there’s a tinge of bitterness. “Good old Gamlin. We had to stay with him for a bit when we lost the house. He could sniff out loose change like a rat. Back before we recovered grandmother’s will, we figured out that no one was better at secretly emptying Bethany’s piggy bank. Almost wish he had just smashed it, so she didn’t have to find out on her birthday that she couldn’t afford to get us fancy cupcakes.”

“You deeply care for your siblings,” Cassandra says, voice low.

“Yes,” she agrees easily. “I love them. Even if Carver doesn’t particularly like me, I know they love me, too.”

“He idolizes you. Younger siblings always do.”

There’s a brief pause, and the only sounds Cassandra can hear are their quiet breathing and the sound of rain tapping against the window.

“You don’t have to tell me about it, but you’ve mentioned your brother before.”

The muted television is distracting lights and shapes in the corner of her eye, so she closes them. “Yes. Anthony. He’s… he passed away.”

Hawke hums. It doesn’t seem like she sounds surprised. Thinking about her brother feels like picking at a scab, tempting and addicting, but leaves a bigger scar in her wake. But with Hawke pressed up behind her, she wants to open that door, just a crack.

“He was murdered,” Cassandra continues. “It was sudden, and senseless. Anthony was very bright, and in a moment all that potential and light was gone.”

Hawke shifts behind her, and Cassandra feels the press of Hawke’s forehead against the middle of her back. Hawke’s arm follows a second later, wrapping firm and warm around her chest. The simple affection is overwhelming, and her eyes prickle hot.

“Thank you, Hawke,” she whispers. She hopes Hawke understands what she means. Not just the thank you for listening, or for holding her, but being the type of friend that lets her be open and vulnerable in her presence.

She trades some more stories of Anthony to Hawke, like the little blueberry pastries they used to share. In return, Hawke shares some memories of her own childhood. Cassandra can hear the edges around the words, casually flippant that reveal an uglier memory underneath. Uncle Vestalus wasn’t the most affectionate guardian, but he kept them healthy and fed and safe. Cassandra never had to worry about when the next meal would come, and whether or not she was strong enough to keep her brother safe.

By the time she did worry about that, it was already too late.

Eventually, the conversation slows, the two of them burnt from sharing too much.

Hawke releases Cassandra from her arms with a wet laugh. “Damn, these producers might be onto something. Let’s get married.”

Cassandra refuses to acknowledge the flash of electricity of those words.

Instead, she gently pulls Hawke’s head into her lap and lets her fingers run gently through her hair. She clicks the sound back on, and settles in to watch another episode of Mark being lead on. Although after reading interviews after the show ended, she cannot sympathize with him for willfully ignoring the signs that his feelings were not returned.

She tells Hawke this, who predictably laughs softly at Cassandra being petty.

Cassandra lets her hands pet Hawke’s hair until her eyes are drooping from exhaustion. It’s been along, _very_ stressful day, and Cassandra feels bone-tired. But she’s staying over, and if she tells Hawke now and it doesn’t go well, she’ll be stuck here all night in misery.

Mind wandering, Cassandra runs her finger against the shell of Hawke’s ear. Hawke shivers, and Cassandra pulls back, contrite.

“Nooo, that was nice,” Hawke says sleepily. Cassandra’s face burns. When she takes too long putting her hands back in Hawke’s hair, Hawke groans and pulls herself out of Cassandra’s lap. “We should go to sleep.”

“Yes, I’ll— I’ll take the couch.”

“You’re taking my bed,” she states. Because it is a _statement._ Cassandra can see Hawke try to blink consciousness back into her head, too tired to focus. “The couch is murder, trust me. I’m not using it either.”

Cassandra’s mind whites out. _Are they sharing?_ A second late Hawke's whole face flushes red.

“Varric’s!” Hawke’s voice cracks. She coughs and grabs her phone off the coffee table to shove in Cassandra’s face. “I got the greenlight to sleep in Varric’s room, he’s playing poker at friend’s and gonna crash there.”

The phone is too close for Cassandra to read, but she trusts that’s what it says. She nods jerkily.

There’s an awkward moment when Hawke points her to the guest toothbrushes, and then she disappears instantly into Varric’s room, leaving Cassandra alone.

__  
  


Cassandra tosses and turns all night, the smell of Hawke’s olive-blossom lotion lingering in the room. The clothes are comfortable, cotton thick without being scratchy, but she’s always incapable of sleeping the first night in a new space. She feels frustrated, yanked awake with a thudding heart more times than she can count, just like whenever she anxiously wakes up before an early alarm.

Eventually around 6am, Cassandra metaphorically throws in the towel by literally flinging off the blankets. 

She allows herself to snoop for a bit, poking around Hawke’s room. It’s neater than she expected (a quick glance confirms Hawke didn’t just shove everything into the closet, and she mentally sends a quick apology for jumping to assumptions every previous time she’s come over). The only mess is at her desk, paper, pictures, little trinkets scatter across the wide space and are tape almost haphazardly to the wall.

Eventually her shame takes over before her curiosity is satisfied, so she rips herself away from rifling through her dresser to sit in the center of the room and clear her mind.

It’s one of her worst attempts at meditation.

She can’t pluck the clouds of fleeting thoughts from the blue, clear sky of her mind fast enough. 

Over and over, all she can think of is Hawke asleep, warm, lazy on her lap. The shine of her thick hair, the unconscious frown of annoyance when a strand falls in front of her eye, but her unwillingness to shift upright. The little puffs of air against her legs. The heavy weight grounding rather than crushing.

Suddenly the rush of emotions feels loud, feels _tangible,_ a lump pressing up against her teeth.

For a wild moment, Cassandra almost stands, almost marches to Varric’s room, almost rouses Hawke from sleep. She can almost imagine it, the bleary smile when she realizes it’s Cassandra come to wake her. The smile stretching to become sharp, almost _mean_ without being cruel, because Hawke knows. Obvious, embarrassing, and Hawke just _knows_ why Cassandra is there. Can read it on her face.

Cassandra plucks the thought from her mind, trying to settle further into meditation.

Around 7:30am, Cassandra’s stomach rumbles loud enough to register the hunger slowly growing inside her. Now aware, she gives up, joint creaking as she stretches into standing.

Poking around the fridge, Cassandra finds a truly terrifying amount of eggs and enough fresh produce and parmesan to whip up a quick omelette.

Searching through the vegetable drawer, she comes across a little container of mushroom medley she recognizes from the farmers market. _I was there when she got them,_ she thinks, almost possessively. She chops them up and throws them into a skillet, butter and seasoning following shortly after. 

Unlike her laughable attempt at meditation, the easy, repetition motions clear her mind. She sets the coffee machine, hoping the smell will summon Hawke to the kitchen so she doesn’t have to set aside her meal for later. Hawke might be a morning person too, but childish fantasies aside, Cassandra isn’t actually deranged enough to wake another person before 9am.

“Lucy, I’m home!” a voice— _Varric’s voice!!_ —singsongs out from the front door. Nails tap on the floor as Carver the dog comes scampering around the hallway, whuffing and licking Cassandra’s exposed calf.

_Exposed calf!_

Cassandra panics, but there’s no time. She quickly yanks the pajama bottoms down low on her waist. It looks ridiculous, but Hawke’s borrowed shirt is long enough to reach the crease of her thighs; if she kept it as is, it would look like she wasn’t wearing anything underneath at all.

Varric makes a happy noise as whatever he’s doing rustles by the front door. “Oh and do I smell butter and garlic? Is my darling, domestic, generous roommate making me—?”

He stops dead in his tracks when he clears the corner. His eyes bug out, and Cassandra would be tempted to laugh if she was certain she wasn’t making the face right back at him. Her face feels unbearably hot— must be red as a lobster, and— and the damned dog won’t quit licking her leg.

 _“You,”_ he hisses at her, an accusatory finger raised and pointed in her direction.

Varric’s bedroom door slams open, revealing Hawke in the doorframe, hair messy and eyes wild. “You’re home early.”

“Hold on—,” Varric says, eyes locked with Hawke’s now. “My room? So I slept on a shitty pull-out last night for _no reason?”_

“Um,” Hawke responds. In a blink, Hawke’s whole face turns a ruddy red, blush expanding well down her neck. There’s some sort of silent conversation going on between their eyebrows, and Cassandra is sick of it.

Mortified, Cassandra clears her throat and goes back to the stovetop to flip the omelette. It’s a bit more cooked than she normally likes. _It’s not what it looks like! nothing happened! she fell asleep in my lap and I could have kissed her but I_ _didn’t!_ bubble up inside her chest, and she callously bites down every simpering excuse. 

Cassandra’s not sure what’s being said, but some sort of conclusion must have been reached for Varric to sigh heavily and escape into his bedroom. He clicks his tongue and Carver abandons her attempt to eat Cassandra alive, scampering after Varric until the quiet _click_ of the door leaves her alone with Hawke. Cassandra focuses very intently on finishing up the dish. She can vaguely feel Hawke walking around the island before stopping behind her.

Clearing her throat again, she dips her head toward the scallion sitting on the countertop. “That needs to be washed and cut.”

“On it, boss,” Hawke says, voice even and casual.

Cassandra sneaks a peek at the woman next to her, carefully peeling away the outer layers to finely chop the scallion into neat, tidy slices. Her shoulders are relaxed, stance devoid of tension. But there’s still a splash of color high on Hawke’s chest.

Hawke’s beside her and then gone the next. Cassandra finishes up plating their breakfast as Hawke emerges from the bathroom, hair held back in a stubby ponytail and a sheepish look on her face. She grabs ketchup and a carton of milk from the fridge and joins Cassandra at the island, giving an appreciative whistle before digging into the omelet. 

Cassandra takes a couple of bites—as expected, a little dry from being overcooked but flavorful enough to be passable—before carefully finishing chewing.

“So,” Cassandra says, waiting for Hawke to take a sip of her disgusting glass of whole milk. “You sexiled him?”

Hawke chokes on it, which is satisfying. 

“Not a word I thought I’d hear you say,” she says, rubbing at the back of her neck, “and yeah, ha.”

“I— truly?” Cassandra tries not to react.

“Well, at first I just told him someone was staying over and then the conversation got kinda heavy and it was just easier to, well, yeah.” Hawke buries her face in her hands, a blush slowly starting to creep up the back of her neck again. “Oueough. It’s too early for this.” 

Varric’s door opens up and the man himself comes out, dressed in new clothes and clutching a laptop case like a shield. The dog trails after him, tail wagging.

“I’ve got my computer but Carver needs to be fed. I’m going back to Fenris’s.”

“You were supposed to _stay_ at Fenris’s, dickhead,” she says, but there’s no heat. He flips her two-fingers and exits the apartment.

The dog clicks over, rubbing her cold nose against Cassandra’s knee until Hawke stands with a sigh and pulls out the fancy kibble they spoil her with. “Come here, mutt.”

Cassandra plants her palms on the table.

Hawke’s back is to her, but Cassandra can clearly see her from where she’s sitting. There’s a giant hole her ratty sweatpants about an inch or so above the back of her knee.

“I have feelings for you.”

Hawke finishes pouring the kibble and places it back on the shelf. “No you don’t.”

Cassandra has that weird out-of-body feeling you get when something surreally game-changing is happening and your mind can’t figure out if it's real or not, like when she got her first job offer or when she got the call about Anthony. It makes her want to laugh. It makes her want to click pause on her life until she can figure out how she wants to damn well react.

“Nonsense,” Cassandra bites out, grateful to ride the wave of irritation that threatens to overtake her. “I think I would know.”

Hawke _finally_ turns around, and her face is neither tight nor shuttered. It’s just… kind, which is almost worse. She comes back around to sit beside her, totally relaxed.

“Okay, sorry. I’m not going to devalue what you’re feeling right now.” Hawke studies her face, Lord knows what she sees, and tilts her own head. “We can make out if you want, just as friends.”

“As— as friends?” she sputters.

“If you want to see what it’s like—,” Hawke says, trying to put a conciliatory hand on top of her own. Cassandra yanks it back like it's burned and makes a disgruntled noise at the back of her throat.

She stands, finding it impossible to have this _impossible_ conversation seated. This— Hawke was supposed to _understand,_ she was supposed to tease and _get_ it. Instead, she’s still seated motionless in her chair, eyes wide.

“Cass, wait, I’m sorry— I’m sorry, just sit? Okay?” Cassandra can’t stop pacing. She can practically hear the gears whirring in Hawke’s head. “Listen, that was stupid of me. I get it. I’m sorry, let me fix this.” Hawke makes an aborted move to stand before sitting down heavily, hand stretched out plaintively. “Please?”

Cassandra forces herself to breath. This is the worst conversation she’s ever had. 

No, that’s not true. She’s always been bad at talking. Hawke just makes it so easy she forgot what it used to be like. Something settles in the pit of her chest at that. She’s always been a woman of action, not words. She came to her conclusion days ago, and now it’s time to make an active choice rather than pathetically hide from it.

Cassandra goes up to Hawke, softening her face and letting as much tension out of her shoulders as she can. Now she’s treating _Hawke_ like the spooked horse. She might as well be, Cassandra has never seen her sit so still and tense before, eyes darting around like she doesn't know which part of Cassandra to look at.

“Hawke,” she murmurs, letting her hand cup Hawke’s jaw. Her skin is warm enough to feel almost feverish against her cool palms. “I have feelings for you. I adore you. I desire you. I want you to believe me, even if you don’t feel the same way.”

Hawke grips Cassandra’s wrist to keep her hand pressed up against her jaw. Cassandra can feel her chest loosening; it’s obvious, naked across Hawke’s beautiful, glowing face that she reciprocates. She was right—all the little looks Hawke would sneak, the little careless compliments _did_ mean something. Cassandra looks into Hawke’s eyes, and looking back at her is warmth and fondness. It’s overwhelming. It’s incredible. 

“What the fuck,” Hawke blurts out.

Cassandra can feel the moment Hawke winces full body, embarrassed at her own bluntness. Cassandra can’t help it, she giggles. And then suddenly she can’t stop giggling, she’s not even giggling anymore— it’s full-chested laughter. Cassandra laughs so much she cries, and then Hawke is quirking her mouth into a smile a moment later.

Hawke squeezes Cassandra's wrist one last time and stands, wrapping her warm, strong arms around her in a crushing hug. She kisses the scar on the side of Cassandra’s face, her hair, the one tear that escaped down her cheek, the spot behind her jaw.

Eventually, Cassandra starts to calm and wraps her arms around Hawke in return. She rocks them minutely and let’s her hand fall lower on Hawke’s back, rubbing it in slow circles.

“You’re so mean to me. You couldn’t have said something last night when I was all cozy in your lap,” Hawke grouses. “I felt like putty and then you made me sleep all by myself, totally lonely in Varric’s stupid huge bed.”

“Should I have asked you to ‘make out just as friends’? Is that better?” A bit of irritation finds its way back into her voice, so she slips her hand under the hem of Hawke’s shirt to show she isn’t truly upset, fingers dancing over bare skin. She breathes in the scent of olive-blossom lotion.

Hawke huffs into where Cassandra’s neck meets her shoulder. “What else did you expect me to say! Coming onto me so strongly, so suddenly after I’ve spent all these months purposefully not letting myself think of you like that. Plus, I’m _shy.”_

Cassandra opens her mouth to tease back, but a shocking cold spot gets pressed to the back of her leg. With a yelp, Cassandra moves back and looks behind her, Carver the dog done with his breakfast and unrepentantly nosing against her leg.

Now that there’s space between them, Cassandra finally gets to see Hawke’s face. Pieces of hair have escaped her valiantly straining hair-tie, and her eyes still have a wild gleam to them. But she’s frozen still, staring back at Cassandra like she doesn’t believe this is happening.

Cassandra’s heart squeezes, so she kisses her.

She kisses Hawke slowly, like she’s not going anywhere. But firmly. Determinedly. Like Hawke could stop them easily if she wants, but Cassandra doesn’t want to stop, so she’s going to continue kissing her. Like she’s almost lazy with it, because it’s all she’s going to do all day.

After a couple beats Hawke get with the program and it’s— it’s nice. It’s really, _really_ nice. Belatedly, Cassandra realizes she’s got one hand spanning Hawke’s back, and the other buried in her hair. Was kissing someone always this fun? Cassandra remembers usually getting bored, but this is just _fun._ Hawke’s good at it, lips soft. Clever, too.

“You _like_ me,” Hawke murmurs into Cassandra’s mouth. It’s hot, hotter than it should be to hear Hawke say it so bluntly, even if she's got a bit of tease in her voice. Cassandra can feel little zings of energy run down her body.

“I do,” Cassandra whispers back. Then, because she is a little mean, “You haven’t said you do, though, just so you know.”

“What!” Hawke yelps. She grabs the back of Hawke’s hair in firm grip and gently tugs her head and. Oh. That’s _very_ nice. “Oh my god, I didn't. I’m the worst. Carver, stop head butting me I’m busy.”

Hawke gently nudges her dog away with her knee and pulls Cassandra into her bedroom, closing the door behind them. She watches as Hawke’s eyes flick to the crumpled sheets and then back to Cassandra’s lips. 

She lets herself get crowded up against the door, Hawke kissing her like she needs to win an argument. Like she need to fuck into Cassandra’s mouth with her tongue or Cassandra will leave. Impossible.

“Holy shit you’re distracting,” Hawke says eventually, pulling back with her chest heaving, staring her directly in the eye. “Cass. _Cass_ , baby, it’s _really_ important to me that you know I think you’re fucking fantastic. You’re so beautiful it makes me want to cry. I got really drunk once and _did_ cry. Varric was so mean to me about it and put it in the MAD folder.”

Cassandra sneaks another quick peck, as if she could kiss away any lingering hurt. Hawke’s eyes widen and then soften, melting again with affection so blatant it takes Cassandra’s breath away. 

“Cass, you make me want to romance you. It’s unbearable. I want to stargaze with you, hide flowers in your apartment just to surprise you and make you smile. Like, proper romance shit. Sometimes you call your ex boyfriends your ‘lovers,’ and I want to be your lover so bad it hurts.” She pouts slightly. “And I _hate_ that word. I’m practically allergic to it. I’ve never ‘made love’ to anyone in my life, and now you’ve got me sighing over fucking Neruda and Mary Oliver and it’s driving me crazy—”

Cassandra cuts her off with another kiss, and flips them, pinning Hawke up against the wall. Hawke huffs out a little laugh, nothing more than a delighted gasp into Cassandra’s mouth and she— she knows exactly what Hawke is talking about she feels _crazy._ She feels insane. Completely fucking unmoored. 

They continue to makeout, hot and heavy. It gets tricky after a moment, and Cassandra belatedly realizes it's because she’s grinning too hard and can’t stop. She wants to herd them over to Hawke’s bed, but doesn’t want to break this warm little bubble they have going. She peppers kisses around Hawke’s face, starts mentally categorizing which poems she wants to recite. Hawke will _hate_ all that earnestness being pointed in her direction. She can’t wait. But Hawke can’t stop running her mouth, whispering silly little things.

“I meant it, I want to romance you,” Hawke pants, words buzzing against where she’s hiding her face in the crook of Cassandra’s neck, “but also you’ve got this peach fuzz on your stomach and I want to lick it so bad I might die.” On that last word, Hawke _bites_ and Cassandra groans, but refuses to let her knees buckle. “Also, and this is moving too fast, I know, this is not for today, but baby seeing you in my clothes in my kitchen was unreal, one day I’m going to open you up on my strap on the kitchen table—”

Cassandra’s knees _do_ buckle.

__  
  


One morning, Cassandra’s cooking banana pancakes in her own kitchen when Hawke pads out from the shower, hair sweet-smelling but damp, and only wearing Cassandra’s off-white shirt.

But this time when she raises her arms over her head in a performative stretch, it turns out it _is_ too short.

**Author's Note:**

>  **TAGS/POTENTIAL TRIGGERS:** Cassandra talks a bit about her brother Anthony being murdered, pre-fic. It's not graphic and only lasts about a paragraph, but she's torn up about it. There are mild references to Hawke having a rough adolescence. A guy is a little pushy when they're drunk at a bar, but Hawke & Cassandra only feel annoyed, not violated.  
> 
> 
> a couple of random thoughts:
> 
> \- title base off of “home is where” by caveboy… and YES this is the friendship song that plays whenever Dutch and Johnny are being platonic soulmates on _Killjoys_ , but i think it's pretty and fits aesthetically :)
> 
> \- The alternate title I had was “ladies ladies ladies ladies” bc I just heard that in fiona apple’s voice on repeat when writing this, but lyrically it doesnt fit at all :/ sorry miss apple
> 
> \- my mom’s friend named the family dog the same name as her son’s his best friend. but apparently it wasnt named AFTER his friend, just like, coincidentally the son’s best friend and his new dog were both named “ben.” me and my mom still refer to them as “ben the boy” and “ben the dog.” anyways it’s been like over a decade but i still think that was super fucked up and weird
> 
> \- the first scene i wrote was cassandra wishing she could dramatically hang up on hawke. gotham was a (fun) garbage tv show but they UNDERSTOOD the power of a flip-phone
> 
> \- waking someone up at 9am is ALSO insane
> 
> \- side note, cassandra calling her ex’s her “lovers” was so embarrassing for me to write oh my god. I’m repressed too but not, like, in a romantic way. oeough. 
> 
> \- couldn’t figure out how to work it in, but basically hawke’s been sending screenshots of her texts with cassandra to varric like “does she like meeeee so many mixed signals!!” and he’s SICK OF IT!! The one-two punch of getting kicked out of your own home so your roommate can moon over their straight friend. but in varric’s defense he doesn’t like cassandra because 1) he thinks she’s leading on his best friend, and 2) he thinks she’s sorta lame LOL I obviously don’t agree with his assessment but to each their own i guess :/
> 
> lastly, hope you enjoy this treat :) I had a lot of fun writing it!!


End file.
